The Roal to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions
by DahliaXKristoph
Summary: Dahlia Hawthorne deviated from her life's path long ago, but is the road to Hell, or something more...? Most likely to contain T&T spoilers.
1. Chapter I

_Author's Note: I originally wanted this to start as simply a Krissi/Dolly story, but, somehow, my mind backtracked all the way to here. :) T&T spoilers.  
_

_I have a classical literature obsession. Bear with me, please. ;) Also, for the sake of my classical literature obsession, I have taken some "creative liberties" with the days. Yes, I am perfectly aware that Dahlia met Diego on August 27th, but... This worked better, somehow, in my mind.  
_

_Read, review, and enjoy!  
_

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**Chapter I**

**William Shakespeare**

**March Twelfth, 9:52 AM**

"Hello?" The sweet, melodious voice carried through, surprising the secretary of one Diego Armando. Normally, the scores of women calling for her boss had a more mature-sounding voice, or more flirtatious, or were (most often) husky with desire. This voice, shimmering with innocence, surprised the secretary so entirely that she immediately connected the caller to her boss, though she had been on strict orders to "simply hang up on the Kittens, Darla."

"Boss?" Darla called, turning her swivel chair so she faced the inside of the plush, spacious, office of Mr. Armando. "Phone for you. Sounds important." Darla turned back to her phone, made sure the sweet girl with the beautiful voice and her boss were talking, then hung up, giving the two privacy. She wondered who the girl was, then made a mental note to ask Diego later.

"Mr. Armando." The sweet voice was still silky smooth, a stark contrast to the formerly composed man on the opposite end of the phone. Though Diego prided himself (quite vehemently) about being "manly" and "strong," there was still one silky-smooth voice that could still haunt his dreams, intrude horribly into his thoughts, and slip undetected into his life, like poison into a cup of the finest coffee.

"Dahlia Hawthorne."

The voice on the opposite end of the phone gave a small laugh, like tinkling wind chimes. To Diego, though, each peal of her laugh could have been knife stabs, for the sharp pain it caused. He'd had to put on a brave face for the Little Kitten, Mia Fey, but…

The girl of his nightmares stopped laughing, and Diego forced himself to pay attention to her words.

"So delighted you remember me, Mr. Armando."

"You're not easy to forget, Dahlia Hawthorne."

There was that laugh again.

"What do you want, Dahlia." The five words were spoken slowly, calculating, as if spoken from someone else. It was the only way Diego could think to deal with Dahlia Hawthorne—to act

as if he was someone else, someone not completely there, someone unaffected by the manipulative "Teen Angel" who had—

No. None of that. Diego shook his head behind the phone, grateful he was hidden from her eyesight.

"Can't I call just to say 'Hello,' Mr. Armando?"

"You've said that."

"You're not being very polite." She sounded as if she was pouting.

"You don't give me an excuse to be nice, Kitten."

A silence. Diego Armando was grateful for the silence; it gave him time to collect his thoughts, to unscramble his mind, to wrench it away from Little Kitten's first trial, and Dahlia

Hawthorne's subsequent escape.

"I have things I'd like to talk to you about, Mr. Armando. Things concerning our mutual friend, Terry Fawles."

Diego looked at the phone, incredulous. Terry Fawles? He and Mia had been looking into Dahlia Hawthorne's past and Terry Fawles' murder on the stand, looking for evidence to tie Dahlia Hawthorne to the crime. They'd been searching both in any free time they'd had, for the past ten weeks.

There'd been nothing, though, of course. Terry's death had been ruled a "suicide," the case had been closed, and Dahlia Hawthorne had left no trace of evidence behind in her wake.

"What about Terry Fawles, Dahlia."

A giggle. The hairs on Diego's neck stood up, furious in spite of himself. He was there, shaking, Terry Fawles was dead, Little Kitten was still partly in shock, and Dahlia Hawthorne was on

the other end of the phone, giggling? Laughing, as if nothing was wrong.

"Mister Armando," the voice said, still with traces of a laugh, "I'd rather not deal with such a delicate subject in such a public manner. Communicating on a telephone? How…déclassé."

French. She was using French-sounding words to discuss the lives of people she'd ruined, trampled over without the slightest trace of regret. He held the phone to his hands with a pressure that might break the delicate metal, his fingers turning white from the pressure, unable to get the words out.

"Let's meet, Mr. Armando. Publically."

Silence.

"How about three days from now, March fifteenth, in the lawyers' cafeteria? Around one."

Silence.

"It would be very much in your interest to show up, Mr. Armando. And, I'd hate to see what would happen to your lawyer-friend, Mia Fey, if you didn't…"

"Leave Mia out of this, you manipulative little--!"

A small laugh. "You're still responding. Good. I'll see you in three days, then, Mister Armando."

Silence.

"March fifteenth, your cafeteria. Don't be late." One final giggle, then the phone disconnected.

He stared at the phone in his hand for a long time, listening to the dial tone without comprehending. When he could control his speech, movement, and breathing, he slowly poured

himself a cup of coffee, then called to his secretary.

"Darla? Do I have anything scheduled three days from now?"

"One moment, Mister Armando." Diego could hear the sound of a keyboard typing, then: "March fifteenth? Yes. You're booked to see a play—you're going to 'Julius Caesar.' Why?"

"Cancel it. I've a more pressing engagement."

"But, Mr. Armando, it's with Mia Fe—"

"Darla, I said to cancel the play, damn it!"

"… Of course, Mr. Armando."

Four cups of his strongest coffee later, Diego Armando proceeded to call Mia Fey and cancel their "date" himself. He lied to her, of course, saying an "urgent family engagement" had come

up, and that he couldn't get out of it. He promised to reschedule later, and to buy her coffee later in the week.

He didn't mention Dahlia Hawthorne. No need to worry the Little Kitten even more. After all, it was just a normal meeting. He'd be in a public place, surrounded by lawyers and police officers alike. If Dahlia Hawthorne tried to pull anything, she'd be surrounded by every kind of law enforcement official.

Diego Armando almost smiled to himself, taking a deep drink of coffee, enjoying the dark, bitter taste run down his throat for the first time that day. Dahlia Hawthorne was powerless. He was safe. He was fine. He was "okay."

Nothing bad could happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

**Niccolò Machiavelli**

**March Fifteenth, 12:54 PM**

Dahlia Hawthorne took one final look at the mirror in the doorway of the entrance to the cafeteria. Everything was in place, of course—her traditional pink dress, white sandals, and dainty parasol. She'd debated bringing the parasol in the first place (opening umbrella-like things was supposed to bring bad luck), but then realized she was Dahlia Hawthorne, and thus, beyond luck.

She fingered the tiny necklace around her neck once more, feeling comforted by its presence, and of by the slight "swishing" noise it made at her touch. She smiled to herself, feeling even more comforted by the presence of the liquid than of the necklace itself.

She gave a beautiful, angelic smile to the lawyer entering the cafeteria, then opened the door herself and stepped inside. She appreciated the open, airy space and casual atmosphere of the cafeteria, the lawyers sitting in plastic chairs around plastic tables, eating food off plastic chairs. She sniffed disdainfully at the options for "lunch"—fattening sandwiches, hamburgers, a "salad buffet" that had seen better days fifteen years ago, and, of course, the endless line of coffee machines.

She wasn't hungry, of course, but helped herself to a cup of coffee. She appreciated the irony, and occasionally liked a cup.

She spied the red-clad defense attorney exactly on time, sitting at a table, near a window, alone, staring with what she could only think was a "melancholy expression" on his face, at his coffee cup. She approached him, smiling.

"Mr. Armando. What a pleasure to finally see you again." She sat opposite him, staring into his eyes. "How long has it been, now?"

"Ten weeks and three days, Dahlia Hawthorne."

She laughed. "Always so precise, Mr. Armando. You'd think you'd never make any mistakes. Always so precise, so meticulous…" She tilted her head to one side, smiling.

"Sometimes, though, things slip through the cracks."

Diego Armando's fingers clenched around his coffee cup. Dahlia looked down pointedly at his hand, then looked back up into his eyes, her smile present but not quite reaching her eyes, which were cold.

"What do you want, Dahlia."

"Well, Mr. Armando, I wanted to talk to you about Terry Faw—"

Dahlia Hawthorne's voice broke off as she slipped her arm unnoticeably against the rim of her coffee cup. As planned, the cup turned over, spilling coffee across the plastic table and towards Diego.

"Oh!" The word was perfectly timed, the perfect expression of surprise. "I am so sorry, so horribly clumsy." She stared at him, a pleading, innocent expression on her face. "Can you please go grab me a few more napkins to clean up the coffee, Mr. Armando?"

And, like the whimpering, gentlemanly fool Dahlia Hawthorne knew Diego Armando to be, he gallantly got up, and turned his back on Dahlia Hawthorne, the spilled coffee, and the coffee he himself had been drinking, the still-filled cup for which Dahlia Hawthorne now reached. She couldn't help a small chuckle escape through her lips, though she quickly caught herself.

Working quickly, she upended the contents of her necklace into Diego Armando's coffee, then grabbed her coffee stirrer and mixed the clear liquid fully into the coffee's contents. She looked around her once more, but, as usual, the important defense attorneys around her had more important things to bother with than Dahlia Hawthorne.

Her work done, she grabbed a spare napkin herself, then pretended to mop up the remaining mess of her spilled coffee, trying to control her breathing. He returned exactly sixty-five breaths later, carrying another steaming hot cup of coffee (presumably to replace the one she'd spilled—what a gentleman) and several napkins. He placed the coffee in front of her wordlessly, then sat back in his original chair.

Dahlia smiled innocently. "Thank you _ever_ so much, Mr. Armando. It was so nice of you to replace my coffee, too. You're very helpful."

Diego Armando said nothing, and Dahlia Hawthorne took this silence and stared around the room. Decorating the walls were several phrases, presumably Latin legal terms and sayings. She read the only one in English aloud:

"'_The ends justify the means_.'" She looked up, surprised. "Machiavelli."

She tilted her head and gave Diego Armando another smile. "How interesting for lawyers to choose such a phrase. I don't suppose it's supposed to be ironic?"

Diego Armando was silent, glaring instead at Dahlia Hawthorne. He wasn't in the mood for idle chitchat. "Terry Fawles?" He reminded her, raising his coffee to his lips to take a long drink.

For the first time, Dahlia Hawthorne panicked. She knew the poison currently mixed into Armando's coffee was fast-acting, and she didn't need the hassle of a dead man collapsing across from her.

"Come, Mister Armando," she said, smiling, betraying none of the mild panic in her system, confident she could charm Armando into doing what she wanted. "Let's take a walk—go somewhere private. It's still too public, here."

He wordlessly stood, and she grabbed both coffees, careful not to mix the two up. He gestured in front of her, showing he'd follow her.

Dahlia Hawthorne wanted her freedom, and Diego Armando and Mia Fey were both a threat to that.

_The ends justify the means_.

As the two exited the cafeteria, Dahlia Hawthorne heard the wooden door close behind them. They were in a wide, expansive, yet empty, hallway. A few windows let the two see out, to the city in front of them.

"The view's nice," Dahlia said, holding her coffee. She gave the other cup to Diego Armando, making absolutely sure he'd been given the right cup, then faced away from him, staring out an especially large window.

"I hear prison has nice windows, too, Dahlia Hawthorne. You'll have to let us know."

"Hmm?" Dahlia Hawthorne turned to face Diego, watching with internal glee as he took a long drink of coffee. She savored the moment of her triumph, even as she bristled at the "us" in Diego's last comment.

"Mister Armando, I'm not going anywhere."

"You were going to tell me about Terry Fawles."

Two minutes was all it would take, and Diego Armando would no longer threaten Dahlia Hawthorne. She could afford to humor him, in his last two minutes. She was in an especially generous mood.

"He died because of me. That necklace held poison, and I framed him for my 'murder' to get my hands on that diamond. The fool trusted his beautiful 'Teen Angel' a little too much. My acting's very convincing, Mister Armando."

She noticed his incredulous expression, and gave a real laugh—a cold, cruel, malicious laugh.

_The ends justify the means_.

"You and Terry Fawles are quite similar, you know."

Diego Armando's face was turning white, and he looked sick. "What?" He said, his voice gasping for breath.

"My acting's very convincing, Mister Armando," she said, giving him a delicate smile. "You trusted this 'Teen Angel' a little too much, too." Twirling her parasol, she added: "And you'll die the same way Terry did, too. By poison, from a necklace identical to the one he drank."

She touched her necklace fondly, and watched Diego Armando's face pale. He was frightened, and that fear calmed Dahlia's slight nerves. His fear put Dahlia Hawthorne back in control, and there was no better feeling than that.

"_The ends justify the means_, Mister Diego Armando."

"You—" But he couldn't get the words out. Diego Armando keeled over, not breathing, and fell, spread eagle, onto the floor.

Dahlia Hawthorne laughed aloud, noting that Diego Armando's position looked, ironically, like he was making a snow angel.

"Diego Armando: Fallen Angel." Somehow, it didn't fit.

Realizing her next task was to move Diego's body, Dahlia Hawthorne looked around the hallway, appreciating the multitude of broom closets and small conference rooms waiting, empty, at her disposal.

Well, not so much "at her disposal," as "for Diego's disposal."

Though naturally slender and petite in stature, Dahlia Hawthorne was fueled by adrenaline, and dragged Diego Armando into the nearest broom closet, and then proceeded to lock the door behind the body. It'd be a while before anyone discovered the body, she hoped, and by then, she'd be long gone. The hallway was still empty, and she slipped gratefully and gracefully into the shadows, vanishing from sight. She nearly flew down a set of stairs, eager to put as much room between herself and the broom closet as possible.

The deed was done, Armando was dead, and Dahlia Hawthorne was supposed to finally have peace, but couldn't help but feel as if there was something missing, something she'd forgotten, overlooked. She paused, halfway down a flight of stairs. Her hands flew to the necklace around her neck, seeking the reassuring comfort it gave her. Her hands locked around the chain, when—

"Hell." The curse slipped out involuntarily. The necklace! If she was interrogated by the police, they'd certainly notice the necklace. They might even bring it in as evidence, and test for poison inside. It'd be the death of Dahlia Hawthorne, literally—murder was a capital offense.

The panic spread through Dahlia's system like the poison that had spread through Diego's. She grasped the necklace ever tighter, as if hoping she could make it vanish if she held it tight enough. She had to dispose of it, but how? She couldn't throw it away—it'd be found in a trash bin somewhere, and traced back to her. She couldn't keep it, obviously.

Dahlia Hawthorne continued slowly down the stairs, her face paling, feeling as though she might be walking to her own guillotine. How could she explain the poison? The necklace? The mysterious meeting that had brought about Diego Armando's subsequent murder? There was no escape for that. She was done fo—

Wait. As Dahlia climbed down the bottom stair, her sandals echoing like gun shots in the empty stairway, she noticed a door to her left. "LIBRARY." Inside, she could make out figures, checking out books, looking at books, and talking in hushed voices.

She couldn't throw out the necklace, and she couldn't be caught wearing it. A new plan flew into her head, and she pushed open the door to the lawyers' library, smiling serenely.

A boy, around her age, was standing close to the library, looking at a book. A spineless twit, wearing a pink sweater, looking like a five-year-old and probably had the IQ to match.

Yes. He'd do. He'd do nicely.

Swallowing her panic over being caught at last, Dahlia Hawthorne approached the boy, an angelic smile across her face. "What are you reading?"

The boy looked at Dahlia, taking in her parasol, pink dress, and heavenly smile. When he realized she was talking to him, he promptly dropped the book on the floor. "M-M-Me?" He stuttered, incredulous.

Dahlia inwardly rolled her eyes. Insufferable twit. "Yes, of course!" She cried flirtatiously, then extended her hand in the boy's direction. "My name is Dahlia Hawthorne."

The boy in front of her stared at Dahlia's small, elegant hand, as if unsure of what to do. He grabbed her hand in one of his large ones, and pumped Dahlia's hand eagerly. "I'm Phoenix! Phoenix Wright."

"Pleasure to meet you," Dahlia lied. "You look a little young to be here, though. You must be extremely intelligent." Her flirting sounded nauseous, and she couldn't believe she'd sunk so low.

Phoenix Wright puffed out his chest in self-importance. "I'm studying to be a lawyer!"

"I just killed a lawyer!" She said in her head, mocking his perky tone. "Wow," she said aloud, instead. "That must be hard."

"It's not a big deal," Phoenix Wright said, trying to be nonchalant and brag at the same time. It didn't work. "Why are you here?"

"I'm…checking out a book for a paper," she lied quickly. "But I never expected to meet someone so handsome."

Phoenix Wright beamed. "Gee, thanks. I never thought someone like you would walk into the library, either! I'm a junior at Ivy University—what about you?"

"Me, too!" She exclaimed, feigning delight. "We should get together sometime." Thinking ever-quicker, she undid the necklace around her neck and placed it around his, smiling.

"Here," she said. "This is for you…Feenie." She rolled her eyes to herself. What a terrible nickname.

"Why, thanks, Dollie!" Phoenix Wright fingered the necklace, looking at Dahlia lovingly. "I've never gotten a love token, before! It's a symbol of our never-ending romantic love!"

Dahlia Hawthorne forced herself not to groan, rip the necklace off Phoenix Wright's neck, and strangle him with it.

_The ends justify the means_.

"Maybe I can have it back soon? We can meet up, and you can give it back." She liked that necklace, after all.

"Like a date, Dollie?"

"Umm, sure. A date."

"Golly! That'd be really fun, Dollie." He smiled softly at her. "I never thought you'd talk to me. Most pretty girls ignore me."

_I wonder why_. "What a shame."

Phoenix Wright smiled at her again. "I can't wait to see you again, Dollie."

"Me neither." God, this was torture. She had to get out of this suffocating library, with this suffocating imbecile. "I have to go now, though. I'll call you."

Phoenix Wright ripped out a piece of paper from one of the library's books (apparently vandalism was all right if you had the common sense of a flea), and wrote his number in large pink ink.

Large. Pink. Ink.

Gag.

He handed the paper to Dahlia, his smile growing ever-brighter. "I can't wait for your call, Dollie."

_I can_. "See you soon, Feenie Dear!"

She strode confidently out of the library, unable to keep the smug, triumphant smile off her face. That horrid lawyer, Diego Armando, was dead, and Dahlia Hawthorne had left no trace of her crime behind. Besides, she now had a legitimate excuse to enroll in college. Though she'd never been one for the regulated, controlling curriculum of high school, the freedom of college courses appealed to her.

She was still smiling to herself exactly eight-and-a-half minutes later, when the men in blue themselves found her in the lobby of the large office. She'd been about to stride confidently out of the building, but, like the clever actress she was, she burst into near-hysterical tears at the news of Diego Armando's "death." She swore up and down that she had nothing to do with the crime, then begged the police to "investigate the crime fully" and "find the soulless criminal who took the life of such a promising attorney." The police, fully charmed by her beauty, tears, and lack of convicting evidence, let her go, apologizing for "troubling her day with such sad news."

Dahlia Hawthorne walked out of the building, into the direct sunlight of the outside world. Shielding her delicate skin with her parasol, Dahlia Hawthorne took quick, neat steps, savoring her triumph, smiling at the people walking past her on the sidewalk.

_The ends justify the means_.

She walked on a little further, then pulled out a small, pink cell phone. She dialed an all-too-familiar number, then waited. She counted one ring, two rings, three rings, and then:

"Hello?"

"Iris?"

"Dahlia? Is it really you?! Oh, I'm so happy to hear from you! How are yo—"

"Iris," Dahlia said deliberately, cutting her sister off, "have you ever heard of Machiavelli?"


End file.
